Page 23 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Jolie—my best friend—she and I traded nights making dinner. I grew up cooking for my family too, although that was for eight. I haven’t made very many steaks, but I’ve watched approximately two hours of tutorials so I’ll be fine. So, how do you like your meat, tendy?”

The bathroom door swings open and Mason groans comically loud. “Use more hockey terms and I won’t be able to control myself.”

“Crease, biscuit, apple. And if you make even one more chirp about my lovingly cooked meal, then you can eat alone in the sin bin.”

He gargles the air and comes to peer over my shoulder. I’m still drumming my fingers on the countertop and focused on the rice, but when I glance up at him, my world narrows to an angry red line headed straight for his face.

I whirl and intercept him, grab him by the chin, and force his head to the side to better see the split lip and vibrant bruise spread across his cheekbone.

“Mason Martin LaMille, what the fuck is on your face?” I ask.

Vin’s smirking in the corner of my eye but is smart enough not to intervene.

“Like my shiner? Does it turn you on, bunny? You can sleep in my room tonight if so.”

I shove him away by his chin and cross my arms.

“Start talking,” I demand.

“Brad is officially aware that you’re living with us.”

“Uh-huh. And I suppose you told him in the worst way possible?”

“No, Trick told him while pretending it was a goodwill gesture to avoid drama. I, however, understand the purpose of our pact and did my best to goad him about how spicy and sweet you taste—everywhere.”

“You really do have a death wish.”

“Nah, I can take him. It was worth it to prove you love me.”

I silently glare at him.

“Go ahead, ask me how I know you love me.”

When I only scoff, his smile spreads.

“It’s cute when you pretend not to be aroused.”

“Mason, I swear to fuck—”

“I mean that you care I got hurt. Here you are, in my kitchen—”

“Trick’s kitchen,” Vin interrupts. “Also mine. Not yours.”

“—in our kitchen, getting all riled up over my boo-boos. Wanna kiss and make it better?”

Rolling my eyes as hard as I can, I swing back to the rice simmering on the cooktop. The timer’s about to go off, and then I’ll need to quickly fluff it and blend in the butter to make a sauce.

“Ah, ah. Not so fast, bunny,” Mason says, and it’s the only warning I have before he snatches an elbow and hauls me against him.

Sweet and tart lemony goodness wraps around me as I sink into his embrace.

My frustration fades in an instant. I’d always thought that scenting was one of those physical pheromone things. Perhaps the week of texting with him did something to prime my senses to be so attached to his scent.

That’s it. It’s purely autonomic. A learned response at most.

Vin clears his throat. “I’d like my steak mid-rare, please. Trick too.”

“Same for me,” Mason rumbles, and the growl in it goes right between my legs. I don’t know how I’m going to survive in a house with him—with them all really—and not overdose on the suppressants.

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